


House of Plexiglass

by Zjol



Category: PAYDAY (Video Games)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 04:37:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5854522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zjol/pseuds/Zjol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were eight heisters working as part of Payday, as far as Jacket knew. There also seemed to be set roles within the crew and Jacket was unsure of where they had placed him. Perhaps as a supplementary firefight asset. </p><p>He didn't know. He didn't care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Face Value

**Author's Note:**

> In all honesty, I haven't played Payday 2 in a long while. Nevertheless, I still enjoy mulling over the characters of the crew and that there is still some enjoyment to be found for me in writing about these guys. Hope you'll enjoy what bitter concoction I have decided to share today. Zjol.

Jacket stood alone in his dingy apartment, unaffected by the mess and the resulting odours. After all, he didn't quite spend a lot of time there. Just a couple hours to sleep and to shower, maybe the occasional meal.

Sometimes he stuck around and played video games on the tiny television set, but those days were rare. His career was more than demanding and required him to be out of the house often. And when upon arriving home, he needed his rest. A lot of it. 

Jacket kicked at an old box of take-out, half-expecting vermin to crawl out. It seemed to be empty. For now, at least. With dwindling interest, he looked over the rest of the suite. It was rather spacious, for what it was worth. He never really felt too boxed in, never like it was too stifling. There were plenty of windows, albeit dusty and all covered in a nice greasy layer of grime. It let in what sun could filter through the musty dirt and he found that it was enough. He hoped the proposed safe house would be the same, if not better. He liked his space. 

He traced a finger along the yellowing plastic of the landline, still sitting alone on the living room side table. It was going to be an adjustment, he mused. Nothing he couldn't handle. 

The man, Bain, had mentioned that the crew was stationed in Washington, DC. He had said that Jacket was more than welcome to take residence at the Payday safe house, citing that it had recently gone under renovation. Jacket wondered on what terms compelled Bain to specifically report the last tidbit; had the safe house been unsuitable for living before? 

Jacket wandered over to the kitchen and looked over the various items strewn about. He didn't have many belongings to take with him. Initially, he didn't quite intend to live at the proffered arrangement, but looking over his flat now, he doubted that he’d be back. If he were to ever be back in his hometown, renting a new apartment was just going to be a reality. 

Knowing his landlord, Jacket would have to clean out the suite before he was to vacate it. But also knowing his landlord, Jacket wasn’t too keen on helping the bastard. He’d dump whatever was easy, but it wasn’t his priority to follow whatever rules the landlord had made up. 

He went over to his bedroom and sat down on the small lumpy mattress, glancing at the television set with a detached face. 

Bain had said that travel had been arranged, but it pained him to leave his DeLorean behind. He declined the plane ticket and decided to drive up to Washington, DC. It’d take about over half a day all the way through with no stops. He just needed to throw in a bag or two of what belongings he did want to keep and to make sure the tank was full to begin the journey. 

That wasn't to say he was without anything else to prepare. He was going to be working within an organization that carried out contracts as given by contractors. Wolf promised that many included killing, but also warned that silent stealth missions were also to be expected. No matter. He needed to work with a team either way.

He leaned over and pulled open the side table drawer, rummaging through dry dust and broken pens. He pulled out an old tape recorder and fiddled with the controls. He tested it for functionality as he gave his television set another glimpse. 

\--

There were eight heisters working as part of Payday, as far as Jacket knew. There also seemed to be set roles within the crew and Jacket was unsure of where they had placed him. Perhaps as a supplementary firefight asset. He didn't know. He didn't care. 

Contractually, Bain solely issued ones where only four heisters are sent out. Having extra people on the bench, he had stated, left another four capable to pull heists if anything really bad were to happen the first group. 

Clover was giving him a tour of the safe house now and she had started with the top floor, pointing out bedrooms and bathrooms. 

“Here. This one’s yours,” she said, turning down the hall. She opened one of the many identical wooden doors and walked in. It was plain, but spotless. There was a queen-sized bed with cream fitted sheets, a side table, a dresser, and a desk tucked in the corner by a window. “Dallas lets us decorate it, within reason. But no microwaves.”

Jacket turned to her and gave her a curious look. She grinned. “Wolf nearly burned the house down. Twice. No one is allowed to use the microwave unsupervised anymore. Dallas was really pissed.”

He gave a small nod, still somewhat confused by the prospect of microwave fires. He dropped his duffel bag onto the floor, right by the bed, before he began to survey the room. The ceilings were a nice height, the walls a warm white. He went over to the closet door and pulled it open, looking in with mild interest. It was a nice room. A very nice room. But that was all it was. 

He returned to Clover, a passive expression stretched over his face. She regarded him with her arms crossed; it looked to be a habit of thought. 

“You don't talk much, do you, Jacket?”

He reached into his pocket. Thumbing the button of his tape recorder, he clicked, “Please proceed.” 

She gave a low whistle with wide eyes. “You don't talk at all.”

Impatient to continue, he pressed another button on the device, “We are in a hurry.”

She raised her hands in mock surrender as she swivelled on the spot. “Alright, alright, let's get down to the ground floor, shall we?”

\--

The ground floor was just the garage, kitchen, dining hall, and communal rec rooms. He eyed the gaming consoles of the tv room, curious about the game situation and whether if they had his favourites. 

Clover watched him gaze at the consoles. “We only really watching Netflix on those things.”

Jacket looked back at her. Lame. 

She shrugged and led him to the next rec room. This one had a pool table with several armchairs and small tables. “Only Dallas and Wick really use this room. Probably because the rest of us suck shit at this compared to them.” She walked out, hands stuffed into the pockets of her slacks. 

Jacket paused at the doorway with a thought,  before pulling out his tape recorder. With a squeak, “Stay.” She turned her head to look over her shoulder. 

“What?” she asked, midway through her step. 

“Arms outstretched.” He pointed at her suit. He remembered that the other members he had met earlier were also dressed similarly. Was there some sort of a dress code?

She pulled her brows together in thought, unsure of what Jacket was attempting to communicate. “You askin’ about the suit?” Thankfully, she was quick and observant. 

Jacket nodded, returning his tape recorder to his back pocket. 

“I mean, Bain or Dallas might ask you to wear one. But I don't remember reading about it in the manual.”

Jacket was taken aback. Payday had a manual?

She gave a small smirk. “There wasn't a manual. If there was, I didn't read it. I'm sure they won’t care. Come on, there's still one more floor.”

They walked back to the middle of the house where a desecrated statue of the Lady Justice stood. Jacket stared at the red lines on her face then at her broken arm. 

“Jacket.”

He whipped his head in time to catch a wad of cash between his hands. He looked back up and gave Clover a skeptical look. 

She nodded over to the statue. “Tip the scales,” she said, giddy.  

Still skeptical, Jacket placed the wad onto one of the dishes and a low rumble was sounded behind it. Following the sound, he looked around and saw that a portion of the hardwood flooring had opened up to the basement. 

He turned to Clover, who had a giddy grin on her face. “Now was that an adventure, eh? Let's go.”

She led him down the steel stairs into the dark control room. Monitors covered the walls and Jacket observed them with little interest. It seemed that Payday liked to cover all bases. They continued deeper into the basement and she pointed out the armoury, the firing range, the safes room, and, oddly enough, the door room. They stopped by one of the bigger rooms at the end of the hall. 

Jacket stepped from behind her and glanced at all the maps and tacked up posters of faces and graphs. 

“This is the briefing room,” she said, bringing his attention back. “Basically where all the boring shit happens. This floor is the actual operations level. It's pretty much empty only on weekend mornings. Kids like to catch their z’s. Anyways, this is the end of the tour.” 

She then looked over Jacket with a concerned expression. She wasted no time. 

“You look fucked up.”

“Thank you,” he clicked out with a frown.

“I heard you drove all the way up here. Must have been quite a drive,” she continued. He nodded. “At least 16 hours nonstop.” He nodded again. “I'll let you go. It's time for you to sleep and unfuck your face.” She turned to leave. “Good night, Jacket. Welcome to the crew.”

He clicked out another, “Thank you.” Though this one was more genuine than the last.

\--

He woke up in the early afternoon, feeling somewhat rested. The sheets were smooth and the mattress luxurious. He didn’t remember a time when he had that level of comfort for sleep. 

That is to say if he were to exclude alcohol and drug fuelled slumber and pure pass outs from exhaustion. 

He got off the bed and reached for his crumpled jeans on the floor. He needed to piss and he vaguely remembered Clover showing him the bathroom. 

He left his room, making sure to shut it behind him, and walked down the hall. He stopped, hand reaching out for the knob just as it swung open. Jacket suppressed the reflex of slamming the door back, to allow it to swing and hit whoever just walked through. 

Houston gave him a surprised look. “Morning,” he nodded. Jacket stared and offered no verbal acknowledgement, which Houston managed to not respond to. He just flipped his towel over his shoulder and brushed past the blond, presumably heading back to his own room. 

Jacket shut the door behind him and locked it before taking a much needed piss. As he did so, he looked around the bathroom. It was spacious, nearly as large as his bedroom, which was massive in its own right. There was a mirror lining all of one wall and a long counter beneath it, punctuated by two marble sinks. 

There were towers of folded towels laid on the wall shelf by the bathtub. With quick sniff, Jacket figured he was due a shower. 

After he washed his hands, he looked into the mirror at the bags under his eyes before splashing cold water onto his face, to alleviate some of the exhaustion built up of years and years of little sleep. No such luck. 

He returned to his room where he began to unpack his bag. There really wasn't much stuff to put away; a few sets of clothes, items he enjoyed to use as weapons, and his favourite mask. He tucked the clothes into the dresser, amused by the amount of space that wasn't to be used, before he began to hang his weapons and masks in the closet with little order. It was just whatever would stay up. 

He shook off the duffel bag and kicked it into his closet. Feeling a presence outside his threshold, Jacket approached it just as two knocks sounded. Wolf grinned and pulled him into a hug as soon as he opened the door. 

“Heard you had arrived last night,” Wolf said, resting his chin on Jacket’s shoulder, “I was waiting for you to wake up to properly welcome you. Sorry for not being there yesterday though, I was away from the safehouse.” Jacket barely heard any of that. He was too taken aback by the human contact and he was too aware of how long it had been for any degree of touch that wasn't violent, how long it had been for any degree of intimacy. 

Wolf finally pulled away to hold Jacket at an arm’s length with what he could read as a determined expression. Jacket cocked his head slightly, unsure of what was holding Wolf’s calculating gaze and rather concerned on whether Wolf had seen a glimpse of his thoughts.

The Swede eventually grinned again. “Glad you had decided to join.” He gave his shoulders a firm squeeze. “What’re you going to do today?” he asked, dropping his hands. 

Jacket looked over his shoulder. He had finished unpacking what little things he had brought. All that’s left to do in the morning was to shower and eat. He turned back to Wolf and shrugged. Nothing much was planned for him, as far as he knew. 

Still grinning, “Let’s go out for lunch. Hox is coming, too, and we can just hang out and he can get to know you.” Jacket nodded despite the uncertainty in his gut. “Meet you downstairs in half an hour. Hox is still asleep. I’ll have to wake him up.” With that, he was gone. 

Jacket went over to his dresser and pulled out another t-shirt and pair of jeans. He needed to shower. 

\--

Jacket went downstairs, dressed, and sat on the couch, waiting for Wolf and Hoxton. He didn't need half an hour to shower and change, but he also didn't have much to do as he waited for them. 

Clover walked by and stopped, looking down at him with a mug in one hand and laptop under the other arm. He noticed that she wasn’t wearing her suit, instead she was dressed in a plain white tee and a green pair shorts covered in tiny prints of clovers. 

She gave a soft snort. “Yeah, Wolf got me this last Christmas. He sucks at fashion. At least he got the right size,” she commented, following Jacket’s gaze to her attire. She jerked her head back up. “So, how was your sleep? Good, I presume?”

He nodded. 

She nodded in response. “That's good, mate. Talk to you later.” She disappeared into the video games room. As Jacket began to vaguely wonder if he had enough time for a game, Wolf hopped over the couch and landed with a heavy plop beside him. 

“Hoxton just swore at me and threatened to kill my family, so I don’t think he’s ready to go,” Wolf said with a grimace. 

Jacket checked his mobile. It had been at least twenty minutes. Wolf must have been really dedicated to waking up this Hoxton guy to have been trying all that time. 

“It’s okay, we’ll just go without him. You ready?” Wolf asked. He smiled when Jacket nodded. “Alright, let’s go, let's go. I’m fucking starved.”

As they crossed the house to the back, Wolf stopped and invited Houston along. He was in the kitchen, filling a pitcher with water. There was a cutting board on the counter beside him, mounds of sliced cucumbers sitting on the wooden surface. The stern man gave Wolf a pause before answering, “No, thank you.” The Swede pouted before leading Jacket out of the safehouse into the garage. 

They got into Wolf’s car, doors slamming shut. The interior was clean—not a speck of dust—and it was not been something Jacket had expected of Wolf. He was a violent maniac during battle, using tools in ways for painful deaths. Blood splatters were to be expected through his wide arching swings and swift stabs. Jacket found that Wolf revered in creative modes of killing—something they both have in common, though he suspected Wolf had a much more playful tone to his actions. 

Wolf put the key into the ignition and hummed cheerily as he started the car, tapping along gently on the leather of his steering wheel. 

Jacket pulled his seatbelt on, still absorbed into the thought of Wolf being a neat man. It meant little sense to him and he was bent on casting light onto it. He leaned back and watched Wolf drive the car out of the yard and down the back alley, still humming with a cheerful tint. 

Wolf may produce mess, but that wasn’t because of sloppy technique, Jacket mused. He can be so calculated. Small, sharp utensils for precision. Also helped if they were attached to a drill. 

Jacket looked away and out the windshield, watching the dilapidated brick buildings chip by, watching the civilians milling about their day, and watching the clouds cast their shadows. Humans just so happened to make a mess if any arteries were to be nicked—and that happened quite a bit in both their professions. 

Messes were to be expected. 

\--

They arrived back to the safehouse, bellies full with good food. Jacket didn't remember a time he had a lunch that fancy. Based on Wolf’s demeanour, it seemed that it had been a normal, average outing, nothing too out of place. 

It was strange. Jacket had never imagined to be so aware of himself in public. He decided that he didn't very much like it. 

“What’s that? Food for little ol’ me?” Clover piped from the kitchen, gesturing to the paper bag in Wolf’s hand. 

“You wish,” Wolf retorted. He had gotten a take-out pear panini or something rather for Hoxton. Clover grinned with mischief,

“I bet it’s for your boyfriend.”

Wolf flushed a hearty pink. “He’s not my boyfriend, Clover!” Then he raced up the stairs, bag rustling still in hand. 

She turned to Jacket with a sly smirk. “He gets so embarrassed about it.”

Perplexed, but wholly uninterested, he settled on giving her a compliant nod before taking his leave for the video games room. 

He hadn’t expect someone to already be there. Houston was seated on the couch, facing the largest screen with a black controller between his hands. His pitcher of cucumber water was close to empty, the green coins floating close to each other, if not already stuck together. Houston looked up at the blond with minimal facial indicators. He leaned over the arm of the couch and pulled another controller out. 

“You wanna play?”

Jacket regarded the controller then the screen. He recognized the game, but he personally had never played it himself. He gave a nod shrug combo before taking a seat beside the man. He took the offered controller and turned to the screen as Houston set the game to split screen for multiplayer. 

“It’s Halo,” Houston said, still messing with the controls. “You know how to play?” 

Jacket looked at the controller in his hands. He could probably figure it out. He gave a nod as Houston started a new campaign. 

\--

Sometime later, about an hour and a half, Dallas poked his head in from the doorway. 

“Hey,” he said. 

Houston paused the game and looked at his brother. “Hey,” he answered back. 

“Going to be robbing a high end jewellery store tomorrow. You know the game plan? Should we run another meeting?”

Houston pulled a hand across his cropped hair. “Ehh, sure.” He gave Jacket a sweeping glance before turning back to his brother. “Why not give the new guy a stealth run? See how he does.” 

Dallas leaned against the doorway with a thoughtful expression. He deliberated silently for a moment. He shrugged a shoulder. “Sure,” he faced Jacket. “How’d you feel about a stealth heist? We’ll go over the plans downstairs in a few minutes. Gotta grab the rest of the available crew.” 

Jacket gave him a certain stare. Sure, he was sure. Dallas nodded in response, though he looked uncertain about whether he was reading the blond correctly. “Great,” he said. “See you downstairs in about, eh, five minutes.” He shut the door behind him. 

Houston leaned his head back on the couch. “Alright, I guess we’ll resume later.” He put the controller down on the coffee table and stood to stretch. Jacket placed his controller down beside his and stood up also, following the man out and down to the briefing room. 

Jacket stood by the centre table, looking around at the bulletin boards. Houston went over to the corner and pulled open one of the filing cabinets, picking out a fat dossier. He pushed the cabinet shut before opening up the folder on the table. 

Jacket watched as Houston began spreading out page-sized photographs of a jewellery store. The front was made up of mostly glass and Jacket could see that it was a two storey building. He squinted down at the photos. Looked like offices were on the second floor. 

The rest of the crew began to trickle in and they gathered around the table. Wolf was still in his slacks and button up, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Hoxton was dressed similarly—he had ample time to, assuming Wolf had woken him up for the panini. Dallas himself was suited up, even more so than Hoxton and Wolf. But most everyone else was wearing weekend stay-at-home clothes, plain sweats and shirts. 

“Didn't we already have a meeting for this, Dallas? What’s new?” Chains asked, leaning over the photographs. 

“Jacket hadn’t been here for the initial briefing and I wanted him to get some experience with our quiet contracts,” Dallas said, picking up a document page. “And I was just informed today that this diamond store is particular.”

“Ohh, no,” Clover groaned. 

“Yeah,” Dallas replied, a note of disappointment evident in his voice. “The one we’re heading to has no side door for the security room. Fun, right?”

Jacket listened to the sounds and murmurings of displeasure. 

“Nothing we haven't faced before, fellas,” Dallas reassured. “But we’ll need to brief again. No mistakes are to be made—got it?”

\--

Afterwards, Houston helped his brother pack up the notes. The briefing room was empty save for Dallas and Chains, both still going over the final security details. 

“Can we get a wiretap for the manager’s office?” 

“I don't think that’ll be necessary.”

“Dallas, we had to kill three civilians last time, Chains paused, looking up at the crew chief. “I don't know if I’m willing to do that again.”

Dallas shrugged. “Sacrifices have to be made. All they had to do was listen and get down. Wasn’t on us.”

Chains didn’t look reassured in the least. “I know that, Dallas. But is it really in our best interest to waste people like that?”

Houston began to lose track of their conversation as he picked up a sticky note from Bain. Scrawled in messy red ink, it detailed the clientele of the store. Trophy wives and rich dicks. Controllable cowards.

He packed it neatly into the dossier, sticking it to a Polaroid photo of a body bag case. He cleared the last few documents off of the table before checking the folder for any loose sheets in danger of slipping from it. 

Satisfied, Houston slipped the folder into its place in the file cabinet. He turned around just in time to see Chains storm off. 

“What’s his deal?” 

“His empathy.”

Dallas didn't care to elaborate further. He seemed to be itching for a smoke as he excused himself, hands patting pockets for a pack and a lighter. 

\--

Jacket took his own car out for a drive. He had no end in mind, nothing really. He was just aiming to feel the familiar cruise and rumbling of his DeLorean to soothe what nerves he had. 

It had been a smooth transition into Payday. The crew, though still strangers, seemed to be tight. Loyal. He wasn’t sure to what—either the organization or the money Payday offered. 

As for himself, he didn't quite need the money. If he were to be honest with himself, he didn't know what he needed. Whether it was companionship of like minds or something to preoccupy his time, he was uncertain. 

Wolf had been a joy to see. He recognized the feeling in his chest; it was kinship and familiarity in a sea of new faces. Wolf had an expression of understanding and openness, not a common response to him due to his muteness and his limited capacity of expressing social cues. 

Even Clover was guilty to the first response of confusion and suspicion. She had been wary of him—which was a fair response, Jacket didn't deny that—but she had also warmed up quickly. She was observant and it served to allow her to read him better, all without the words and expressions. 

Jacket slowed to a stop at a red light. 

Everyone else, however, did not seem to have acclimated like she had. They stayed wary and careful, their sideways glances fleeting, but more than a subtle giveaway to what they felt towards him. Jacket began to move forwards again to the green. 

He wondered how long it would take for everyone to trust him as he rolled down the empty evening streets. It wasn’t as if he needed their trust to work alongside them—he hadn't needed it before in his career.

\--

“Where’s Jacket?”

Wolf looked away from his phone. He was laying sprawled on the couch, no longer in his dress shirt and slacks, instead, his pyjamas. He squinted up at the ceiling, thinking. “I don't know. I think he went out.” He looked back at Houston, inquisitive. “Why?”

Houston took Wolf’s ankles and lifted them as he took his seat on the couch. He rested them onto his lap as he sat back with a controller. “Thought he might want to continue the campaign. I’ll just work on the solo one, I guess.”

\--

Everyone had the same response to his arrival. All cold, unsure, uncertain. Jacket pulled into the yard and parked beside Wolf’s vehicle. He took his keys out from the ignition and sat back in the driver’s seat, frowning in thought. 

Not everyone. 

\--

He walked into the safe house. It was quiet, which was to be expected late into the night. 

Light rumblings of a stereo system sounded through the rec room door and Jacket, feeling none too tired just yet, followed and opened the door. 

Surprised, though his expression refused to reflect it, he stood at the threshold, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. 

Houston looked up at him from the couch and gave a small nod of a greeting. Wolf was laying down, his legs across his lap. He looked to be asleep, his mobile phone barely held by a hand gone slack. 

“He fell asleep,” Houston whispered. He gestured with his head to the controller on the coffee table, where Jacket last left it. “You up for Halo?”

No, not really. Not anymore. 

Jacket shook his head and shut the door before climbing the stairs up to his room.   
He laid down on his bed, still fully clothed, confused by his disappointment.  


	2. Not Mine

Dallas assigned Clover, Hoxton, Wolf, and Jacket to the heist, the leader himself staying out of the action. Jacket had been more than intensely briefed by Wolf and he was fascinated with the Swede’s commitment to the professionalism of stealth heists. He had been thorough in his proceedings and Jacket felt like he had barely just grazed the surface that was Wolf’s knowledge and experience in the field. Jacket was in awe. 

Clover and Hoxton were seated by an umbrella at an outdoor patio. They blended into the civilian environment; their suits benign, their faces unmasked. 

Wolf and Jacket snuck up the steel stairs and crouched beneath the camera. The technician pulled out a lockpicking kit and began his work on the back door lock. They had no external access to the security room—the only way to eliminate that guard was through the store. 

They would go straight in with an ECM beeping, but it the glass displays were wired to an alarm, instantly calling for police. Having to kill the armed guards as soon as they enter the store, it left a wide margin for any stray bullet from either side to set the alarm off. 

They needed either all roaming guards dead first or the alarm disabled first—or both for extra security. 

Jacket stayed behind Wolf as he pushed open the door. There were two cameras: one on the left wall facing the office and another looking out to the indoor stairs. There was also a guard at the end of the hall, looking out the window, and another coming up the stairs. 

The blond aimed down the hall and caught the man in the back of his head with a bullet. Wolf waited for the other to round the corner and out of the camera frame before shooting him in the back and then in the head. 

“Go, go,” Wolf whispered and Jacket sprinted down the hall and crouched by the corpse, searching for the pager on the utility belt. He found it strapped to the front side of the belt, but the position of the guard prevented him from answering properly. He heaved and rolled the body onto its side, propping it against the wall under the hallway camera and he held down the response button as he pulled out his tape recorder. 

As the pager call ended, Jacket looked up and met eyes with a woman in a suit who was just coming out of her office. Automatically, he lifted his gun as she lifted her hands, her shriek cut short by the bullet in her gut. She staggered and fell over, bleeding and silent. 

Cautiously, Jacket rose and went over to her body, fishing in her pockets for the key card. He found it and he peeked into her room for the card reader. It wasn't there. He heard a pop of a silenced pistol behind him, back in the hall and he stepped out of the office to see Wolf answer another pager by another corpse. 

Jacket jogged to the next office over and peered inside. No reader. 

Wolf whispered, “Might be in the main room or the security room. Go check.” Jacket did as he was told and he crouched by the indoor stairway. He surveyed the walls for any reading devices. “It’s usually by the stairs,” Wolf whispered from behind him. He pointed with a gloved finger at the reader. 

Ah. 

“I’m going to call them in. Stay hidden,” he warned and he left Jacket’s side. 

Clover and Hoxton led in by Wolf appeared in the hall and, together, the four descended the stairs, masks on and guns cocked. 

\--

They were clearing out the diamond store. 

Jacket carried out what seemed to be the eleventh full duffel bag of loot. It was heavy, consisting only of metal and gems of jewelry. He hauled it all the way to the van parked across the street and threw it in, grunting in effort. By how packed the van was, he wondered about whether they could even fit in for the getaway. 

As he jogged back across the street, he watched as Hoxton opened up several ATMs and pulled out wads of cash, stuffing them into the duffel bag by his feet. 

It was a clean job, a thorough job. 

“Oi, that’s all of it,” Clover called out. She hoisted a bag onto her shoulder, quickly making her way to the van. She stopped to throw it in, giving a low whistle as she surveyed the scene. “Alright, Jacket, get in.”

He shot her a skeptical look. No way in hell that he’d be able to climb in—he’d have to army crawl. 

“Come on, we haven’t got all day,” she said, shooing him in. Jacket placed a foot up onto the floor of the van and pulled himself up. He clambered over the loot bags until he reached the very far wall. It was uncomfortable. The sharp edges of cut jewels and cold metal dug into his sides, the canvas of the bags doing nothing to soften the blows. He shifted to make way for Wolf, who climbed in with little to no grace as he fumbled over the bulk of the bags. Hoxton was in along with his usual grumbling and curses, then finally Clover, who motioned Jacket to give two firm knocks on the van wall to signal Twitch that they were in and that they were ready. 

The van rumbled to a start and soon they felt the road move beneath them, taking the crew and their loot home. 

\--

Dallas welcomed them home with the smile and the cold expectation in his eyes, which warmed as soon as he saw the bags. “Good job, crew,” he said, draping an arm over Wolf’s shoulder. “Not bad, not bad at all.” 

“Piece of cake,” Clover reported, pulling off her mask. 

“Speaking of cake,” Dallas said, watching the returning crew. “I think Chains baked one for dessert today. I think you guys are more than deserving of a big, fat slice of sugar.” 

Instantly, the members perked up at the prospect of dessert. 

“Better be more of that angel bloody food cake, I could go for some of that,” Hoxton said, picking at his coat. Clover nodded in agreement. 

“No idea what, but you better appreciate his work, clowns,” Dallas called out as they filed out to the main hall, both reminiscing about the particular dessert.

Dallas looked at Wolf as he loosened his hold. “How was Jacket?” he asked quietly, ducking his head. 

The Swede grinned up at the chief. “He was excellent. Ten out of ten.”

Dallas nodded and gave a final pat on Wolf’s back. “Go get changed. Dinner’s in an hour.”

\--

Jacket hung his mask and dumped his weapons into his closet. There were mask and weapon racks in the bunker, but it didn't feel right to leave them there. He much preferred them to be in his closet, within reach, like how it was before in his old living arrangements. 

He stared down at the assorted items, a hesitant hand on the door. His hammer had hardly been used in the heist, his mask was uncharacteristically clean and unbloodied. He had been given a new pistol, modded with a short silencer. That was a new addition in his arsenal and an unique one—he never had to be silent during his old jobs. 

It was strange to have to pack away his equipment after work and not have to clean off the blood and hairs and slices of skin before it. It felt surreal. 

Something was stirring uncomfortably under his lungs and he knew himself well enough that he was still feeling misgivings about killing the civilian today. In an act of familiarity and split second decision making, he had shot her because, at the time, she had been a threat. A threat to the mission, a threat to him, a threat to them all. But she had been a civilian. 

He shook it off as he shut the closet door. He needed a smoke, a drive, anything. Anything to feel like himself again. 

He grabbed his jacket from the bed and felt for his crinkled box of cigarettes and a lighter, before trying not to practically run out of the house. He felt smothered as he descended the stairs, hands nearly crushing his cigarette box. He passed Wolf and barely registered his words. Something about dinner. 

He stumbled out the back door and leaned against the brick wall outside. Tilting his head back, he slowly pulled a smoke from its box. His fingers trembled and threatened to drop the cigarette as he moved it up to his mouth. He rested it on his lip as he looked up at the sky; his vision going hazy, his mind slowing down. Being tightly wound and being constantly on guard—it took quite a toll on his physiological well being. 

Though enclosed with a cover fence, the backyard was significantly more free than the safehouse. The loose rhythm of the wind, the distant noise of traffic, cushioned the sharp reality of life. He liked it both ways, but right now, he needed the world to be forgiving. 

“Hey.”

Jacket turned his head to the back door. Houston held it open, a look of expectation flat on his face. 

“Dinner’s ready in about half an hour. You staying for it?”

Jacket turned back to the sky and blew smoke at it. The nicotine filled him, but he figured he needed some nutrition, for what he was worth. He nodded.

“Okay.” But he didn't leave. Houston let the door swing shut behind him before leaning against the other wall, watching the blond. “What’s up?”

Jacket dragged a deep breath from the cigarette and held it tight in his lungs. What's up? Could he really communicate what was up? He let the smoke filter through and out his parted lips. There was too much to say and nearly no ways for him to say it. He had left his tape recorder back up in his room, but no recording he had was close to adequate. 

“What, Payday ended up more boring than expected?”

No, that wasn't it. Jacket shook his head. 

Houston tried again. “More than you can handle?”

Absolutely not. Jacket shook his head once again. 

Houston made no expression as he watched Jacket’s turmoil unfold. He seemed to be hesitating; not because he was unsure, but because he was refusing to voice it. 

There was a set silence as he looked Jacket over,

“You killed your first civilian on the job today.”

There was no judgement in his voice, nothing but ready rationality. The way he had said it made Jacket think that it was a common phase to plague Payday crew members early on in their careers. The murder of an innocent person in their line of work. 

Jacket scoffed and flicked his barely burned cigarette to the ground, eyes hard. He stared it down as it withered and slowly smoked away, the small dot of orange flickering beneath the ash. He swung an arm out, hands balled into a fist and hit the wall out by his side. Houston held his tongue. 

Jacket repeated the action once more—but only once more. The rough texture of the brick dug and ripped into the side of his hand. The skin was torn, but did not bleed right away. 

“Happens to all of us,” Houston offered. “When I took up Hoxton’s mantle, one of my first jobs involved a small bank and a stray passerby must have caught a glimpse of me through the windows. He had ducked behind a car and called the police,” Houston smiled bitterly. “I had to chase him down and shoot him. I didn't have to, what was done was done. He had turned the heist from stealth to loud and me killing him did nothing to change that. We see a lot of death in this line of work.” He paused. “You’ll get used to it.”

Jacket nodded numbly. He wasn't sure if he wanted to get used to spilling innocent blood. 

“One turns into two and then three and then suddenly fifty and they just become faceless. They don't matter anymore,” Houston shrugged. Then he gave a small laugh. “Bain hates it when we do—but it makes life easier.”

Jacket thought that was selfish of him, selfish of them. To take a life for your own ease, it stirred his gut. 

“Don't worry too much if you have to kill someone,” Houston continued. “They're nothing—”

Jacket hit him. 

He didn't have any right to label them nothing, he didn't many have any right to take their life, their liberty, away from them. 

It didn't have to be this way. 

Jacket had balled his torn hand and struck his face. It would have been his nose, but Houston, a seasoned fighter, had recoiled just enough to only be nicked across the jaw. 

Houston didn't yell, he didn't make any noise. He only backed away to assume a ready position; his arms raised and poised, hands curled to strike. He looked like a man who had been in many fights. He looked like a man who wasn’t about to give up. 

Jacket wasn’t sure on which part had set him off, but he was angry and he was tired of the pent up aggression. He had killed people today—innocent people. Killing was his release of rage. Today, it only supplied him. 

He took another swing at Houston’s face before blocking a side hit. And then another. He shifted his weight, pushing one foot forwards. He threw another punch, but was surprised by one to his cheek. 

Seeing red and impatient with the tactile moves, he rushed Houston and threw himself at him, pulling a knee up and slamming it beneath the man’s rib cage. He gave a choked gasp. 

Houston doubled over slightly as Jacket began to lift his knee up for another hit. He pushed his shoulder against him, forcing Jacket to stumble backwards and away, but Houston closed the distance and forced him to the ground. 

The cement was a harsh landing against the palm of his hands, but his knee was well cushioned on top of Jacket’s chest. Houston hit him across the face. He pulled his arm back and hit him again. And again. And again. 

As his adrenaline died down, he stopped and lowered his arm. Jacket was wheezing through blood and spit, his left eye most swollen and red. He didn't look like he could fight back anymore. 

Houston slowly clambered off of him and fell on his ass as he tried to make sense of the situation. Jacket was a fucking nut case. 

His hands throbbed and he pulled them to his chest as he watched Jacket struggle for breath. His own jaw stung and his muscles ached as he sat up. It had been short, but rather physically demanding. He hadn't expect the smaller man to be so strong and to be so direct with his swings. Every one of his hits hurt like a bitch and Houston was starting to feel his ribs for any breaks or fractures. 

His fight...Houston figured the guy was ex-military, or something, Jacket was too well-trained to be just an ordinary joe who happened to do some Tuesday evening martial arts. 

Shocked, Houston watched as Jacket pulled himself up from the concrete, still laboured in breathing. Houston yelled out, for the first time in their dispute, as Jacket rushed at him again, his slender frame tipping him over onto his back. 

He threw his arms up, to shield what strikes were to come, but Jacket elbowed them away, forcing them down, and glared at him instead, fists raised and clenched as if to continue the fight. 

Blood was smeared over the lower half of his face and dripped and splattered against Houston’s cheeks. He looked awful and his skull looked bashed in and Houston briefly wondered if he looked the same as he tried to catch his breath in the odd little break of the brawl. 

Jacket said nothing and expressed nothing as he lowered his hands to rest on the ground on either side of Houston’s head, his blood still falling in thick droplets. He hung his head, his eyes wild and wide, his chest heaving, as he continued to stare the other man down. 

Houston had no idea what the other man was thinking. 

“Heard someone yell—holy fuck!”

Neither of them turned to the third party. They remained locked on the ground, giving each other steady stares through blood and sweat. 

Neither of them were inclined to move. Houston was fine the way he was. And so was Jacket. 

“Clover! Bring out the fucking medic bag!”

Wolf raced over and peeled a reluctant Jacket off and away, propping him up against the nearest wall. There were more footsteps and Dallas appeared into Houston’s vision, a concerned expression foreign on his face. 

“Houston, are you okay?” Dallas leaned down and inspected his brother’s head, a gentle hand on his cheekbone as he felt for breaks. He looked up and turned away, “What the fuck happened?” Wolf shrugged in response. 

“What does it look like happened?” Houston groaned. His voice was nasally and garbled from the blood running backwards into his nose. He tilted his head and spat blood from his throat. 

“Your face is covered in bloo—”

“Not mine,” Houston said curtly. 

Clover finally got to the yard, two medic kits under her arms. She froze by the door. “Fucking shite,” she muttered, her eyes wide at the scene before her. She dropped one by Wolf and tossed the other over to Dallas, who knelt over his brother, assessing his injuries. 

\--

Dinner was awkward, to say the least. Even after the dispute, Jacket and Houston insisted on sitting next to each other. Clover was uncharacteristically quiet—the dining room void of her Irish chirps—and even Hoxton kept his mouth shut. It made for a tense atmosphere. 

Dishes and cups clinked, echoing, as the team ate their dinner. Jacket’s torn and aching knuckles made using cutlery a challenging task. He struggled to keep his hands from quivering and from sending his food flying over the table. Wolf watched him through the corner of his eye, unsure if it was his place to speak up or if he was allowed to offer help. Dallas was pissed, as far as Wolf could tell, but he also remained composed. Somehow. 

It was one thing that two members decided to have a fist fight in the back-fucking-yard. Another to have your brother beat into a pulp in the said fisticuffs. 

As loyal as Dallas was to Payday, Wolf was sure familial ties made him more inclined to side with Houston. He was only human. 

Hoxton kept his eyes averted from Jacket and Houston, Dragan kept his eyes trained on them, and Chains remained calm, much like Dallas. Clover prodded at her meal, unaccustomed to the unease and she looked like she didn't want to be present, a shared feeling amongst most of the crew—except for Jacket and Houston. 

They were going at their dinners like normal, save for the slow use of their utensils due to bruised hands, and they seemed to neither notice not acknowledge the air around them. 

“Could you pass me the salt?” Houston asked, voice pinched and nasally. Jacket nodded and put his fork down before reaching across the table to retrieve the shaker. 

Almost everyone watched the interaction with bated breaths. 

Houston gave a quiet “thanks” and gently tapped it over his plate. 

\--

As soon as everyone was done with dessert, they quickly left the room to dump the dishes into the sink. Clover leaned on the counter, breathing out a long sigh. “Longest dinner of my life,” she whispered. 

Hoxton nodded in agreement, his ponytail bobbing up and down. He placed his plate and cup into the sink as quietly as he could, still tensely waiting for the inevitable fury of the chief. 

“How many days do you think he’s got?” Clover asked, half in jest. Hoxton scoffed. 

“Probably choking the poor bastard out right now.” 

Clover laughed, albeit nervously. Wolf came into the kitchen, still downing his drink from his glass. 

“Hey Wolf, do you know what the fight was about?”

Mouth still full, Wolf dropped his dishes into the sink on top of theirs before swallowing what was left as he shook his head. “No fucking clue.”

“Weird how Dallas didn't make them change before dinner,” Clover said, making a face. “Looked like they had used their shirts to mop up a slaughterhouse or some shite.”

Wolf chuckled, wiping a napkin across his mouth. “I don’t ever want to get between those two.” Both Hoxton and Clover murmured in agreement as Dragan appeared. 

“Being little gossip girls, are we?” he asked gruffly.

“Oh, please,” Clover rolled her eyes. “As if you didn't want to join in.” He laughed. 

“They put on quite the little show,” he said, folding his sleeves up. “Saw most of it through the upstairs window.”

Hoxton regarded him, appalled. “And you didn't get them to stop?”

“What was I to do, Hoxton?” Dragan asked, filling the sink with hot water. “It was very quick. Boom, boom, boom. Out like lights. Wouldn't have been able to stop if I had tried.” He squirted a generous amount of dish soap into the sink, letting the flowing tap stir it into suds. “Alright, which one of you fuckers is rinsing and which is drying?”

“I call drying!” Clover said quickly, rolling her sleeves with fervour. 

“Uhh, rinsing,” Hoxton said immediately after. Wolf gave a pout. “That leaves you to clearing the rest of the table, Wolf.”

“Please don’t make me go back out there,” he pleaded. As Clover pulled out clean tea towels from the cupboards, she gave him a look of pity. 

“Sorry, Wolf, you gotta be quicker next time.”

\--

Wolf peeked out of the kitchen just as Wick entered. He gave the Swede an odd look before slipping his dishes and cutlery into the soapy water. 

“Do I want to know?” he asked the group. 

“How do you not already?” Clover retorted. 

Wolf saw that only Chains, Dallas, Jacket, and Houston remained at the dinner table; all still quiet as they finished their meals. 

Well, he couldn’t very well clear and wipe the table down if it was still in use, so he slyly retreated back into the kitchen and hung around until the last diners had dropped their plates off. 

\--

Chains gave Dallas a sidelong look. They had to talk about it. They weren’t about to let it slide, especially at the rate Payday was growing. Law and order were to be enforced, upheld, and followed. So, who was to start it first?

Chains sighed and put down his cutlery. “You guys cannot be duking it out while you’re in this team together. At all.” He looked to Houston, then to Jacket. Neither seemed to respond. 

“Yeah, it won’t happen again,” Houston said flatly. He exchanged glances with Jacket, who appeared to share the sentiment. With two loud clinks, Dallas let go of his fork and knife and reached for his drink. Houston watched with an expectant expression, familiar with the proceedings. “You going to punish us?”

Chains seemed to err on the side of caution and turned to Dallas, who was in the middle of dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “What do you think, Dallas?”

The chief placed the cloth napkin down onto the table, seeming to deliberate his words in his mind. “As much as I believe that this won’t happen again,” he began, flashing a glare to Jacket’s direction. “It won’t do any good to leave you both unpunished. It sets a bad precedent.” Chains nodded along in agreement. 

“Though,” he interjected, folding his hands together, “It’s just your first offences and you did swear that it is to never happen again. I’m alright with just a menial task assignment.” 

“That’s fine with me, too,” he said. Then he turned to the two offenders. “But if I catch you fighting again, and I will catch you if you do, it’s going to be bad.” 

“If you two really can’t work together, we’ll try to separate you for heists, but that won't be guaranteed. It’s a job. Keep your personal affairs out,” Chains warned, staring them down. 

“That won’t be a problem,” Houston said. “Are we done here?” 

Chains nodded for the both of them as the chief drifted into heavy thought. 

“Good.” Houston picked up his dishes and other paraphernalia and left, Jacket following him closely. 

The kitchen went silent and dropped a few degrees as the two stepped into the room. They piled their dishes into the soapy sink and filed out together without a word and without acknowledgement of the crew’s reactions. It was not their business and, Jacket especially, had no interest in it. 

The two climbed up the stairs in their own thoughts, their aching limbs taking them to their respective rooms. 

At the top of the flight, Houston turned to Jacket. “How’s your head?”

The blond shrugged. He’ll live. His face hurt and his skull felt stuffed, but otherwise, it was nothing a painkiller and some sleep wouldn't fix. That was how he used to deal with it. Sometimes, he wouldn't even have any painkillers. He’d depend on exhaustion to take him, instead. 

“I think you should get it checked out.”

Jacket frowned. Houston was one to talk. 

“It’s not safe to sleep if you have an undiagnosed brain injury—”  
Jacket scoffed and turned away from the conversation. He was aching for a shower, but more so for sleep. He had no time for a lecture. He opened the door to his room and slammed it shut for a final fuck you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're all in for a long one. Zjol.


End file.
